Avenging Westeros
by Bakkughan
Summary: Steve is 8,000 years old, Tony is driving his brother Ned up the wall, Bruce is a maester with anger-issues, Fury is the Master of Whispers, and Natasha has just made a daring escape from her masters, the Faceless Men. All the while, White Walkers rise in the cold North, Dragons are born in the warm East, and Westeros is caught in the middle, with a civil war brewing.
1. The Soldier I

**AN:** Special thanks to Dark Vizard447 for suggesting this story! This chapter will be a lot shorter than most of my others are, but this will probably become a sort of drabble fic, where we jump from character to character, and see how they impact the world around them. For an update on my long absence, check out my profile.

 **AN 2:** I shamelessly took the chapter labels from willywalkerstrikesagain's "Hear Me Roar: The Lannisters in the War of the Ring". Go check it out. One of (if not _the)_ best GoT crossovers on this site.

* * *

 **The Soldier I**

Benjen Stark had made the rank of First Ranger for little over a year when he found the shield. It was odd in all aspects, to say the least. Not only was it circular, a shape that Benjen had never seen used for shields before, there was also a sense of familiarity, a connection between him and the half-frozen object.

Now, Benjen, like all Starks, prided himself on being a sensible fellow. So when he encountered a clearly magical shield beyond the Wall, naturally he made to turn around and retreat with all due haste to Castle Black.

If he had, this story might have proceeded in a way most of us are already familiar with, bringing ruin to both Westeros and House Stark.

However, in this reality, the pull on Benjen's consciousness was too great for his natural curiosity to resist, and slowly, with his hand on the hilt of his sword, Benjen glanced back at the odd shield. Swallowing, he cautiously approached the magical object, the feeling of familiarity only growing stronger.

It was almost as if he himself had wrought this shield, with his own two hands, though the memory, if it was in fact a memory, felt ages old.

Having reached the weapon, and something-or someone, whispered in his mind that this was indeed a great weapon, no matter it's shape, Benjen gently nudged it with his booted feet.

After a few tense seconds, during which the silence was only broken by the howling of the wind through the dark trees of the forest, Benjen gave a relieved sigh, glad that the shield hadn't jumped up at him with sudden teeth and arms, or worse, that he had fallen under some sort of spell.

Releasing his white-knuckled grip on his sword, the First Ranger bend down and grasped the shield with both hands, trying to ignore the sense of recognition that grew immensely stronger when he touched the frozen metal.

With a grunt of effort, Benjen ripped the shield free from the ice that had covered it for ages past. Panting a little, the lone Stark examined the shield more closely, examining it for any flaws or damage. Trying to ignore the sense of relief that flooded him when he saw that the shield was undamaged- _and why wouldn't it be? It was his greatest creation after all-_ Benjen noted that despite it's great size, it was incredibly light.

Making a decision that he hoped wasn't influenced by some sort of ancient fell magic, the First Ranger turned around, intent on carrying the shield into battle. After all, Benjen, like all Starks, was a sensible fellow, and there was no sense in leaving behind a fine weapon like this just for the Wildlings to find.

However, when he made to walk away, there was a sense of wrongness that overcame him. He felt like a thief in the night, despite the connection between him and the magical shield. It was as if he wasn't meant to carry it into battle; yes, Benjen was reasonably sure by now that House Stark had _something_ to do with its creation (after all, was it not Bran the Builder, his ancestor who raised the massive Wall of Ice and Magic? Who said that was the only thing he had built?) it became clear to the Ranger that someone else was meant to wield it.

But who?

Turning back to the great block of ice that had trapped the magical shield for so long, Benjen let his experienced eyes roam across the frozen wastes, looking for… looking for… well, he wasn't quite sure _what_ exactly he had been looking for, but he now felt that he couldn't leave before finding it.

There!

Abandoning all of the sensibleness that Starks prided themselves on, Benjen rushed forward to a patch of ice. Underneath it, faded blue and red were visible. And a white star sat in the middle of it.

* * *

"Godsdamnit Benjen." Lord Commander Mormont rumbled in his deep, growling voice, easily filling the small wooden room he and his First Ranger stood in.

He wasn't even all that angry at the Stark. He was a good man, and in this day and age, good men were hard to find.

In the Night's Watch they were impossible to find.

No, his current annoyance stemmed more from the fact that his First Ranger, the most capable and experience Brother of the Watch that he had, had somehow managed to fall for some wet-behind-the-ears, rookie mistake.

Picking up a clearly magical shield beyond the Wall, come on now!

Still, Lord Commander Jeor mused, as he glanced at the shield in question from underneath heavy, snow-white eyebrows, _he_ didn't sense anything magical about the shield. Sure, his experienced eyes recognized quality when he saw it, and there was little doubt in his mind that his ranger's newest find could stand up to even Valyrian Steel.

But there was no connection between him and the damned thing, nothing like Benjen had described upon his return.

' _Then again, the Starks of old were known to be more than a little adept in the fields of magic. This very wall was built by them after all.'_ The Lord of Bear Island mused, his gaze shifting from the shield to the man carrying it, who was now fidgeting in place under his Commander's heavy gaze.

"It's probably something your House has made, at one point or another." Jeor rumbled after a few seconds.

"As such, it's probably best to have it returned to your brother at Winterfell"

Benjen gave a relieved sigh, before nodding his thanks at the Commander. Jeor waved them away however, now focused on the true reason for his ire.

"Tell me, Stark. Why is there a dead man… _on my dining table!?_ " he roared, his voice shaking some dust loose from the ancient rafters above.

Of course, at that moment, aforementioned dead man awoke with a gasp of pain.

* * *

Thus began a changed tale of Westeros, when Benjen Stark found beyond the wall, one of the legends from the Long Night. Steven Rogers, the last hero, had been returned to the realm of Man.

And he was _very_ confused.

And cold.


	2. The Assassin I

**AN:** Unexpected chapter, even for me, but it just came naturally. Hope you like it, and I'm curious as to who can spot both references. Let me know in the reviews :) Enjoy.

* * *

 **The Assassin I**

Tasha's steps were silent, her lithe form easily going unnoticed in the crowd of bodies pressed close to one another, vying for the best seat possible. All had come from the furthest reaches of the Seven Kingdoms and beyond to attend this tourney, and all of them wished to sit the closest to the action.

All, but Tasha.

The redheaded beauty wasn't here for the brutish entertainment provided by arrogant lords, or to share in the dreams of run-down smallfolk.

Tasha was here on a mission.

Her target was a disgustingly corpulent man, surrounded by excess in the form of heavy fabrics, priceless jewels, and expensive concubines. Stationed around him, backs ramrod straight, and hands on their weapons, stood a small company of sell-swords, though to Natasha's experienced eye, they all appeared to be trained well and very disciplined.

Perhaps members from a larger mercenary group, loaned to the wealthy merchant?

Tasha did not care.

They were not her mission.

The fat man was.

Despite being surrounded by body guards, Tasha's mind easily came up with over a dozen ways to kill the man, either gruesomely publicly or with such subtlety, the murder would only be noticed until well after the tourney had come to an end.

She could take on his guards, for as well trained as they might be, they were no match for her prowess.

She could make use of her great beauty, easily passing herself of as one of his concubines and kill him when they were within arms-length of one another.

A dagger, no thicker than one of her slender fingers, slipped between the many folds of his gut, in a moment of inattention from the surrounding guards.

A drop of poison in his cup, when he would ask her to give him more wine to slake his thirst.

Or just the faintest touch of one of her Widow Bites, the bracelets she wore around her delicate wrists, each flawless jewel hiding a terrible and exotic poison, worth its weight ten times over in gold and precious stones.

All of these plans and a thousand more flitted trough Tasha's mind faster than a man could blink, yet she didn't move a muscle. Faintly she heard the announcer of the tourney call that the archery contest would begin in a couple of minutes time, but she paid the man no heed.

So why didn't she execute one of the myriad of ways she could think of to kill the disgusting man a dozen feet away from her, who was now groping a girl that was at least half his age, and less than a quarter of his weight.

The answer was simply, yet at the same time so complex that it had kept Tasha up for the past few weeks, ever since she received this assignment.

She didn't want to.

Although that wasn't entirely true, she mused, as she saw how the revolted girl tried her best to ignore the giant slug of a man that was now groping her in public in a way that wouldn't even be accepted in Lys.

She certainly wanted to kill the piece of filth in front of her, that wasn't what her reluctance stemmed from.

No, her reluctance came from the fact that it was a mission.

True, as far as mission went, this one certainly wasn't the worst, in fact, it was probably one of the least appalling she'd had in recent years.

But she was sick of missions.

In short, Tasha Roomanov wished to retire.

' _And what then?'_ a harsh voice whispered inside her mind.

' _Let's say that by some miracle, the Faceless Men allow you to leave. What then? Will you settle down? Become one of these pathetic smallfolk? Or whore yourself out to one of these fancy lords here, and grow old and stupid within four stone walls of a keep? What will you do, once the killing stops?'_ the voice continued, its tone soft and mocking and tearing at all the wounds that lined the troubled assassin's heart.

With a single tear rolling down a perfect rosy cheek, Tasha glanced from under her hood as a mother hurried past her, a child in the crook of one arm, and the hand of another firmly clasped in the other. The first child rested his head on his mother's shoulder, sucking on his thumb, and looked at the colorful display of the tourney around him in childlike wonder.

Briefly, its big, sky-blue eyes landed on Tasha, but like all other eyes present, they slid past her, like water on oil.

' _You know you can't ever have that. Not anymore, not after what they did to you. Killing is all that's left for you.'_ The voice spoke again, though this time its tone was almost regretful.

And what it said was true; after all, if you train an assassin in the arts of seduction, pregnancy is both an inevitability and a hindrance. Removing it from the equation altogether had seemed like the logical choice to her Masters, and so far they had not been proven wrong.

Closing her eyes, Tasha steeled her heart, and grasped the thin throwing dagger concealed in her sleeve.

The voice was right.

What she wanted she could never get.

So she would simply continue with what she did have, until the day the Many-Faced God would finally take mercy on her and bestow his gift unto her.

With a subtle, snake-like movement, her hand whipped out faster than anyone could possibly see, had they even been paying attention in the first place. The deadly metal flew true, and Tasha could see that it's path would strike the unaware merchant right between the eyes.

She wasn't in the mood for subtlety today.

It was several yards away from its target now, its deadly arc would be complete within the second-

"Aaaahh!"

"Watch it!"

"Help!"

 _Twang!_

 _Plink!_

-until an arrow, shooting out from within the crowd, struck the dagger in mid-air, sending it careening underneath the wooden stands on which the merchant and his entourage had been lounging.

Unbelieving eyes turned towards the incensed crowd, who were now yelling angrily at a figure Tasha could not see.

"What in the Seven Hells was that, you cunt!"

"Ya tryin' ta kill us or sumthin'?!"

"So much for 'best archer in Westeros', ha!"

Quickly turning away from the commotion, Tasha made to escape, but was halted by another voice, which somehow managed to overcome the din of shouting with ease.

"Wait!"

Though she knew that the voice probably wasn't aimed at her, Tasha and the rest of the people were still arrested in their movements, halted by the easy command that lined the speaker's voice.

As she turned back, she saw the crowd part to reveal a youthful man with straw blonde hair, a long-bow in hand and a full quiver on his back. He wore no livery, though Tasha could make out what appeared to be a stylized inverted arrowhead in red leather on the man's tunic.

Walking through the angry crowd with an easy gait and a lazy grin that could match Jaime Lannister's, the archer walked over towards where his arrow was sticking out from the overturned soil.

"You know me people, I always win the prize money, and I always share it with the smallfolk." The man said, plucking the arrow from the ground and twirling it between his fingers.

"Which, if you have forgotten, means you, by the way." The archer glanced at the crowd with a cocked eyebrow, the angry mob settling down somewhat at the promise of gold.

"But, in all fairness, I have given you lot quite the scare haven't I? So here's the new deal. I hit the bulls-eye from here, and _all_ of the prizemoney is to be given to all of the lovely people present."

Even as Tasha, along with quite a few people from the crowd, looked at the boastful archer with skepticism, one of the people who had been yelling at the man spoke up.

"And what if you miss? What then?"

At that, the man simply smirked, and placed the arrow on his long-bow.

"I never miss."

Tasha wanted to scoff at the man's arrogant statement, especially since she had just seen him miss his target and almost hit the crowd, if not for the fact that she clearly remembered how the wayward arrow had somehow managed to perfectly hit her dagger in mid-air, with just enough force to let it be lost underneath the stance, instead of simply hitting someone else than its intended target.

But still, the target was well over two hundred paces away, and despite the fact that the man had clearly trained with his long-bow, if the massively corded muscles were anything to go by, to hit the bulls-eye from such a distance was a feat unheard off.

Apparently, the crowds reasoning had followed much the same path as her own, as they started to murmur amongst themselves. They were quickly silenced though, when the archer pulled back on the drawstring with a fluent ease which belied the massive strength required for such a deed, and loosened the arrow after only half a second of sighting down its shaft.

 _Thwip!_

…

 _Thud._

Tasha, along with all other people present, gaped in disbelief at the arrow that was now stuck in the straw target over two hundred paces away.

Perfectly in the center of the bulls-eye.

Smirk growing wider still, the archer gave a cheeky wave and a jaunty bow at the stunned crowd, before slinging his bow across his back, and walking away, a spring in his step.

Ignoring the exited mutters of the smallfolk about the man's feat (and the gold that they would now receive) Tasha's eyes widened as the archer approached her. Trying to slink away in the shadows that fell between two tents, the assassin almost sighed in relief when it appeared that the man would simply walk past her hiding place.

That relief was shattered when he whispered at her from the corner of his mouth.

"Meet me in the third room on the second floor of the inn two streets away from here. You can't miss it; it's got a white pony on its sign-board."

* * *

Tasha entered the room as silent as a cat, not a doubt in her mind that none of the patrons in the common room below had seen as much as a glimpse of her. Letting the heavy wooden door fall close behind her without even so much as a whisper of a sound, Tasha's experienced eyes scanned the room in a flash.

Her posture appeared relaxed, with her arms hanging loosely by her side, but she was prepared to jump into action at a moment's notice, two thin daggers, concealed within her sleeves, ready to fall into her waiting hands the moment she detected trouble.

The room was small and weathered, dimly lit by a single candle, resting on an old and shabby wooden table. Reclining in the only chair, with his booted feet on the grimy desk, the archer from the tournament was looking at her with a lazy smirk, looking for all the world like a cat who was immensely pleased with himself.

"Why have you called me here? Speak quickly, or die slowly." Tasha said, her voice as always soft and alluring, but showing a hint of dangerous steel as she made her threat.

If the archer was alarmed, he didn't show it, simply raising both hands in surrender, though a smile was still on his face.

"I was sent here on a mission to stop an assassination attempt on the man you tried to kill today." He said easily, and though Tasha tried, she could not find any hint of deceit in the man's tone.

Either he was telling the truth, or he was simply very adept at lying.

In Tasha's experience, the latter was almost a certainty, while the former was laughable.

"Why?" she asked coldly, not batting an eye.

This man wanted to talk? Fine, then they would talk. And if she felt that the information he provided was lacking, than she would make sure that _he_ would talk.

"Because, as disgusting as he is, he is also very useful. He has his chubby fingers in almost every trading route worth mentioning between here and Essos, and that's not even considering the amount of operations he has going on over there as well. Word has it, he has even managed trade with the Dothraki, though how he managed that is anyone's guess."

Crossing her arms and keeping her back to the door, Tasha stared the archer down.

"So this is about money then."

It wasn't a question, yet the man answered anyway.

"Isn't everything?"

Tasha opened her mouth, but found she couldn't refute the man. So she switched subjects.

"You aren't really just an archer, here for the prizemoney of the tourney, are you?"

The man simply shrugged his massive shoulders, an easy smile on his face.

"Kind of like how you aren't a beautiful maiden, come to find a proper suitor either, you mean?"

Tasha simply increased the intensity of her stare, gripping her arms a little tighter. Apparently recognizing the danger he had called upon himself, the man quickly continued.

"I am a spy for the Master of Whispers. He knew that an assassination attempt on the merchant had been requested of the Faceless Men, and decided that he couldn't allow that to happen. Yet."

Tasha frowned at that. The Master of Whispers was both a well-known figure, and a complete enigma. The most commonly known thing about the man was that he didn't come from any House in Westeros, with his skin as dark as those in Qarth and Braavos.

The man had come into King Robert's service not long after the Rebellion had started in earnest, and had immediately taken charge over matters of information gathering and spying. From what Tasha had heard (and considering her training, what she heard was far more sensitive information than most people heard) Jon Arryn ruled the land, while Nik the Furious kept it safe.

The one-eyed man had gained his nick name for his legendary rant against a young Robert, when they came upon the murdered wife and children of the late Rhaegar Targaryen. While Robert had expressed gratitude towards the Lannisters for the horrific act, Nik, backed up by the honorable Eddard Stark, had flown into a rage and railed against both Robert and a smug Tywin Lannister.

Nobody knew exactly what had been said in the Hall of the Red Keep, but within the week, the Old Lion had retreated towards Casterly Rock with his tail between his legs and his army on his heels, Robert refused to leave his chamber for days on end, and House Martell had been invited to come to the Red Keep to take away their kin's bodies for proper burial, and to demand restitution.

The fate of Gregor Clegane, the Mountain Who Rides, and the vile Amory Lorch were unknown, though it was a considered an open secret that neither man had been offered the option of taking the Black.

Nik the Furious didn't suffer monsters in his realm.

So, if the Master of Whispers himself wished that the disgusting merchant was to live another day in unwitting service to the realm, that Tasha would have to inform the rest of the Faceless Men that her target was off limits, for now at least.

"How did he know an assassination was requested? It is well know that he has eyes and ears everywhere, yes, but the Faceless Men do not talk of our donations to outsiders."

Again the archer shrugged, and started buffing his nails.

"You didn't. Your client did, though."

Frowning, Tasha had to concede that such a thing was more than likely. After all, despite being an assassin's guild shrouded in secrecy with agents that could literally look like anyone, they were still somewhat famous, and to afford one of their members was considered a rather large achievement by many.

Of course, most also forgot that, no matter how sensational or impressive, you shouldn't talk about your attempts to murder someone.

Giving a sigh, Tasha continued.

"Fine. So you came to stop me. You did. But you still haven't answered my first question. Why have you asked me to meet you here?"

At this, the carefree expression slid off the man's face as he focused his gaze on her with a seriousness she did not expect.

"I also came to see if you're interested in switching bosses."

For a moment the world stood still, even the flickering of the drying candle frozen in time.

"What?" Tasha breathed, her voice softer than even a whisper.

"I said; I also came to see-"

"I know what you said!" Tasha snapped, the surrealness of the situation putting her on edge.

Noticing that one of her daggers had slipped into her hand without her noticing, she quickly put it back in its hidden compartment in her sleeve, noticing from the corner of her eye that the archer loosened tense muscles as she did so.

"Are you being serious?" she asked hesitantly, the first stirrings of an unfamiliar emotion blooming in her chest.

' _Is this… is this what hope feels like?'_

His face void of any of the levity he had displayed until now, the man nodded gravely.

"Nik could certainly use someone of your talents, especially since he thinks trouble's brewing in the hidden corners of the world."

The tentative stirrings of hope died a sudden dead, and with a feeling of ash in her mouth, Tasha rebuked the spy.

"I'm not going to switch masters if they keep me for the same things. I'm done with assassinating people."

To her surprise, the archer nodded.

"Yeah, I figured something like that when I saw you hesitating for so long. It doesn't really matter in the end. Nik is gonna be disappointed at first, sure, but he'll get over it fast enough. He could still use your talents in order to gather valuable information on our enemies. Of which there are depressingly many."

Tasha barely dared to ask her next question.

"I won't have to kill?"

"Not on orders, no, though you might end up having to defend yourself at some point or another. Basically, you'll turn from an assassin into a spy." The archer said, a reassuring smile on his face.

"Like you?" Tasha asked with a smirk, an unfamiliar giddiness filling her with energy.

"Like me, only less handsome of course." The man answered her with a grin stretching from ear to ear.

Despite herself, Tasha let out a laugh at that, the first genuine one in what must have been years.

But still, worry gnawed at her heart.

"But, the Faceless Men-"

"Don't worry about them. You'll work for Nik the Furious, and he looks out for his own. They won't bother you. He won't allow it."

For an eternal moment, Tasha stood in that shabby, dimly lit room, biting her lip while she tried to decide her future. But in the end, there really was only one choice she could make.

Giving a decisive nod, Tasha looked the archer straight in the eye as she gave him her answer.

"I'm in."

The archer sprang up from his seat, a grin on his face.

"Excellent! Welcome aboard!"

With two great strides, he extended a calloused hand towards her, unheeding of her sudden flinch and defensive crouch at his unexpected movements.

"The name's Clynt. Clynt of House Bartron. Though you can call me Hawkeye when we're in the field."

For a few tense seconds, Tasha stared at the extended hand, before cautiously slipping her own slender hand into his, taking care to keep her Widow Bites concealed.

"Hello Hawkeye. My name is Tasha. Tasha Roomanov."

* * *

As the tourney came to a close, the fat merchant sent away the lovely girls that had kept him company for the day with a slap on their behinds and a golden dragon slipped between their breasts. Heaving himself from his cushioned chair with the help of one of his guards, the man's pig-like eyes surveyed his surroundings, looking for anything out of place.

For most of the tourney, a sense of unease had filled the fat merchant, though he could not tell why he felt so. It had become so bad in fact, that he hadn't even been able to properly enjoy his company and most of the tourney had passed in an unrecognizable blur as his paranoia started to take its toll on his mind.

He was brought out of his brooding by one of his guards. Unsullied, they were not, though they were competent nonetheless, and paid their weight in gold to ensure their loyalty.

"My Lord? Are you ready to depart?"

Sweeping his gaze amongst the stands and the ever-present smallfolk, the merchant gave a distracted nod.

"Go. Prepare my carriage. We leave for Pentos."

Giving a sharp bow, the guard nodded at the orders.

"At once my Lord."

Waving the guard off, the corpulent man turned his back to the stands, and grabbed a nearby goblet of wine.

' _It's probably nothing. Nothing at all, I'm sure.'_ The merchant, Jabba of House Hutt, tried to assure himself, as he raised the jewel encrusted goblet to his thick lips.

 _Ting!_

A silvery blur slammed into the goblet, throwing it out of his hand and spilling all of the expensive wine on his equally expensive robes.

Spitting curses that had the surrounding mothers place their hands on their childrens ears, Jabba looked around in a panic, searching for a hint of his attacker, joined by his guards, who now were all brandishing their weapons.

"WHO DARES?!" the lord of House Hutt roared, spittle flying from his mouth.

"My lord! Look!"

Turning towards the guard that had called out to him, Jabba saw that the man was holding up the cup he had been drinking from.

And pierced through it, a slender dagger shone in the fading light, the sigil of a spider clearly visible on the hilt.

After all, the Black Widow was not in the mood for subtlety today.


	3. The Maester I

**AN:** It's 2 AM right now, and I'm really tired. I hope you enjoy :)

* * *

 **The Maester I**

The diminutive man stepped back from the inscriptions he had carved in the blackened stone in front of him, wiping the pooling sweat from his brow with a wide woolen sleeve. Around the man's neck, links of various metals clinked softly against each other at the movement, each individual part of the chain reflecting the dim light in various ways.

"It's finally done." The man rasped, his voice hoarse from exertion, as if he had been screaming for hours on end.

In front of him, various inscriptions and archaic symbols were carved into the floor of the circular room he stood in, most of the lines filled in with white wax. On various points in the rune scheme, different objects had been placed, some of them so rare they were the stuff of legends, like an emerald the size of a man's fist. Others were so mundane they were used every day, from the lowliest of smallfolk, to the highest of lords; a rusty nail there, a belt-buckle here, even a worn pair of boots.

But in the center of it all stood the two most vital items to the ritual the Maester was about to attempt.

A greatsword, as large as a man's torso, stuck point first in-between the cracks of the stone floor, while on the pommel a great helm, wrought of black metal, was placed, the empty eye-holes seemingly boring into the Maester's soul.

It was also many times larger than any ordinary man's head had any right to be.

In fact, it was more fitted for a giant than a man.

Or, better yet, a Mountain.

Again, Maester Bruse wiped his dripping brow, eyes flitting to the pile of notes and books he had gathered in preparation of this occult ritual. This had been years in the making, and all of it was known to only him.

Oh, he had no doubt that various spies, who reported to various masters, had figured out that he was up to something. He knew his strengths, and stealth was not one of them. However, he was absolutely certain that none of them knew, _what_ exactly he was doing.

Various locks, wards and spells had protected this small tower from unwanted visitors. Of this he had no doubt.

After all, he hadn't been executed yet.

And executed he would, should the nature of his experiments ever come to light. Some would slay him, because they feared he would create terrible monsters. Others would see him dead, simply because they already employed monsters, and did not wish for competition.

But his research was never meant to create abominations. No, if this succeeded, then it would give every man, woman and child, the strength to defend against monsters, be they beast or man.

Unfortunately, he couldn't exactly test his rituals.

Briefly, when he had first begun his research, he had considered using prisoners to test his theories on, but he was immediately sickened to his stomach by the mere thought, and had never considered it again ever since.

He also couldn't ask for volunteers, since he would have to be vague enough to not find himself before an executioner's blade, which in turn would probably turn away every sane man from wanting to help him, no matter the amount of gold he offered.

Which left only the insane to ask for assistance, and Bruse would rather not bestow the gifts of the ritual upon those men and women, for the damage they could do against his people was a price he wasn't willing to pay.

Which left only… himself.

Swallowing back the bile that threatened to rise up from his stomach, Bruse slowly and methodically removed his linked Maester's chain, the link of Valyrian steel catching the light as it fell to the floor, followed by his heavy grey robes. Shivering against the cold wind that managed to seep in through the cracks between the stones of his tower, he stepped inside the rune scheme, taking extreme care to not disturb any of the lines, scriptures, or objects, for doing so would spell certain doom for him, and everything he had ever cared about.

Finally, after what felt like ages to him, but could not have been more than a scant few minutes, Bruse let out an explosive breath of relief, now standing in the middle of the various runes, the great sword with the black helm in front of him.

A shiver ran up his spine as he stared at the weapon which had claimed the lives of scores of men, woman and even children, if the stories were to be believed. Drawing his gaze upwards, his eyes fell upon the great helm, it's empty sockets glaring at him with an unnatural intensity, and Bruse decided that he did, in fact, believe the stories, gruesome as they may be.

Closing his eyes, as much as a means to focus his mind, as to avoid looking at the twisted objects any longer, the scrawny Maester called upon every bit of willpower he possessed.

' _No turning back now.'_

And with that grim thought, he began chanting.

High Valyrian passed his lips in a veritable waterfall, the ancient language lingering oddly in the air, even after they should have faded away long ago, filling the small chamber with the hum of age-old magicks.

For hours on end, Bruse chanted, yelled, sang and murmured, each word seared in his brain over thousands of repetitions over the span of years, until he could recite them in his sleep. The sun had long since sank underneath the horizon, draping the land in the velvety darkness of the night, though the entranced Maester didn't notice any of it.

His lips were chapped, his throat was sore, and his tongue felt as if it would fall out of his mouth at the very next syllable he uttered. Yet still he did not stop. A small part of him, the part that had always been his voice of doubt, even as he dabbled in more and more occult magick, wondered whether he even _could_ finish if he wanted to.

The rest of him, however, was completely consumed by Valyrian magick, it's words spilling out from him without his prompting, his eyes fixed on the empty sockets of the black helmet in front of him, which was now blazing with an unnatural darkness.

Finally, and suddenly, the stream of Valyrian spells halted, and like a puppet with its strings cut, Bruce slumped to the ground. Groaning, his mouth feeling as if someone had tried to pour the entirety of the Red Wastes down his throat, Bruse worked himself to his knees.

The air was heavy with anticipation, as if the entire world was holding its breath, waiting for what he would do next.

For what he would ask of the magick he had called upon.

For the price it would ask in return of him.

Taking a rattling breath, trying to ignore the thirst that threatened to consume him, Bruse extended a hand, his very soul filling with purpose, even as his body started to fail him.

His trembling hand closed around the greatsword's blade, its metal cutting into his skin at a mere touch, making thin rivulets of blood drip down the blade.

The holes in the black great helm blazed with even greater intensity, as if offended by Bruse contact with the blade, but the exhausted Maester didn't care.

He knew what to ask of Magic.

"G-Give me… give me the s-strength… to c-crush Mountains." He rasped, his voice wavering at every word, but his eyes were firm with resolve.

Until there was an unholy shriek, rattling the rafters of the roof and the stones of the floor alike. Bruse eyes flew open in horror as he realized his mistake. He had thought himself so clever, had thought that he had found a way to spite the Mountain who Rides even though the man wasn't there to witness his insult.

But his fatigue had caught up to him, and he had forgotten two very important aspect about Magic.

It possessed some level of sentience.

And it always, _always_ tried to find a way, a loophole of some kind, to screw you over in the end.

A green light, as vibrant and colorful as the giant emerald he had used for the ritual began to fill the room, spilling out into the world beyond for miles and miles on end. It was bright enough that Bruse shut his eyes with a cry of pain, feeling as if they would be seared from his very skull by the intensity of the light.

And then it didn't matter anymore.

Because then, _everything_ was seared from his very bones. Screaming in agony, Bruse curled in on himself, trying to shield himself from the all-consuming pain. It was all for naught though, as the pain now came from within as well.

Bones cracked and broke, before realigning themselves. Muscles started to harder and swell to immense size. And Bruse's skin…

Bruse's skin started to turn a vibrant green.

The transformed Maester, still wailing in agony, was briefly filled with the impression of unfathomable strength, before he felt his mind fall away into a blissful darkness.

But before Bruse let sweet unconsciousness take him, he hear one final word, roared as a challenge, or all the world. The strongest one there is had come to Westeros, and his name was-

"HUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUULLLLLLKKK!"

* * *

 **AN:** Quick note to those who find themselves confused; Bruce asked for the strength to crush the man known as the Mountain. Magic decided to screw him over, however, and gave him the strenght to crush literal mountains. As you can imagine, such a massive power-up comes with a heavy price, which suits magic just fine.


	4. The Spy I

**AN:** So, another short chapter for you guys. I really liked this scene in GoT, because it shows just how dangerous people in positions of power can be. Especially if they aren't all there, upstairs. Enjoy =)

* * *

 **The Spy I**

The sun was shining brightly upon the cesspool of shit and piss that was King's Landing. Inside one of the many courtyards of the Red Keep, a dark-skinned man was slowly making his way through the fragrant garden, enjoying this brief respite of the all-encompassing stench that defined living in the capital of the Seven Kingdoms.

Lifting a hand, Nik gently massaged his left temple, next to where a patch of black cloth covered his eye. The wound was old, _very_ old, in fact, but it still bothered him on occasion.

Pausing at a patch of beautiful roses, the Master of Whispers breathed deeply of their scent, a welcomed reprieve of the smells that usually assaulted his nostrils in this filthy city.

Hearing the soft patter of sandals upon stone, accompanied by the clinking of metal upon metal, Nik sighed inwardly, his face however not betraying anything at all, only showing a cool, calculating expression.

' _The filth of this city consists of more than just human waste, however.'_ The spymaster mused to himself, keeping his back turned towards the approaching party.

He could almost _feel_ the sheer frustration coming off the people now surrounding him, and inwardly smirked. Finally, the other party gave in, and a women cleared her throat with deliberate loudness.

Turning slowly, Nik trained his single eye on one of the few people dumb enough to disturb him during his private moments, few as they may be. For while the Game of Thrones was always afoot, all of the players had quickly learned to take a break whenever Nik decided to do so.

One does not test the patience of the spymaster, for they will find he has precious little of it.

Except for the Queen, apparently, who was now staring at him with a blush of fury creeping up her delicate features.

"And for what reason do you wish to disturb me this time, during one of my few private moments?" Nik asked, his voice colder than the lands beyond the Wall.

He could see the half a dozen men clad in Lannister red surrounding him shift in unease. Used to cowering those weaker than themselves, through either infamy or sheer numbers, these poor excuses for soldiers were completely unfamiliar with a person who simply did not fear them.

The Queen, however, sneered nastily, and in a smooth voice said; "Your Highness."

Nik's eyebrows raised themselves a little, and he could honestly admit that he was taken aback. Had the Lannister bitch finally lost her grip on whatever little sanity she thought she had left?

Seeing Nik's confusion, she let out a huff of air, her eyes taking on a dangerous gleam.

"You forgot to add 'Your Highness', Master of Whispers."

"Ah. No, I didn't."

A silence fell over the courtyard, and Nik couldn't help the sense of amusement that filled him when he saw the mouths of several Lannister men fall open in disbelief.

An expression mirrored by Cercei, who was sputtering in impotent fury.

"Do you not accept me as your Queen then?" she hissed through her teeth, her slim hands balling into fists.

Utterly unimpressed, Nik turned his back to the woman once more, instead gazing at the flowering garden in front of him. He could almost feel several soldiers balk at the sheer audacity he displayed, while the rage of the Queen reached even greater heights at this clear dismissal.

"You haven't really done a good enough job of being Queen for me to accept you as one. You're a spoiled little girl, Cercei, only half as smart as you thinks you are, and twice as cruel. Quite frankly, you'll never become a true Queen. You simply lack…"

At this he half-turned, examining under the scrutiny of his single eye, searching for something that only he knew.

"… well, _everything_ needed for the position."

"YOU DARE?! I _AM_ YOUR QUEEN! AND I CAN HAVE YOU EXECUTED FOR TREASON FOR THE LIES YOU JUST SPREAD!"

"Wrong."

At this, the tirade of the Queen was suddenly cut off, and she blinked in surprise at the spymaster who still stood with his back turned towards her.

"First off, you'll be hard-pressed to find anyone to disagree with what I just said. Your Lannister men, no doubt, and those of the Kings guard you have managed to turn to your side with your clumsy bribery attempts.

But those are not people that _truly_ matter in the Game, Cercei. You don't have the ear of the people that decide who gets executed, and who gets to live."

At this, he finally turned back towards the Queen and her entourage, his face set in such a furious expression of disgust that most of the soldiers shrank back instinctively.

"Because that ear, _just so happens to be attached to my head!_ " Nik roared.

He knew he was famous for his temper, to the point whispers had begun to circulate amongst the smallfolk whether House Baratheon really deserved their words when compared to his fury. Still though, he tried to keep a firm grip on his emotions; and emotional spymaster was a bad spymaster.

And in turn, a bad spymaster would very rapidly turn into a dead spymaster.

However, these Westerosi made it incredibly difficult to not burst out into a furious rage, either because of their incompetence, or their wanton cruelty. As such, whenever one of the leaders of this country inevitably fucked things up in some mind-bogglingly monumental way, Nik would do his title justice, only cementing it even further into the minds of the common folk.

Incidentally, most of his outbursts were due to antics from either House Lannister or House Baratheon.

Usually both.

The Queen, having found some of her arrogance, and mistaking it for bravery, tried to refute the Master of Whispers.

"I could have you removed from your position-"

"How? How would you do that, _exactly_? What spies can you use that do not report to me already? What assassin can you hire that does not already have _my_ gold lining his pockets? Will you try to outspend me then? Hire an army of sellswords and mercenaries? Oh, I have no doubt you could throw away more money than I ever could, but it would still be gold wasted upon fruitless efforts.

Because while I won't spent half as much as you, I'd spend it twice as wisely, and all of those sellswords will come under _my_ employ no matter how much gold you shower upon them."

Nik took a looming step closer to the Queen, who despite herself took a step backwards.

"Because that is something you have never understood, and I doubt you ever will. Your name does not give you power, nor does the amount of banners you can call upon. Your gold, no matter the amount of it you possess, cannot buy you power, and relying on past horrors to strike fear into the hearts of others will only see you ruined in the end."

He took another step forward, she took another step backwards.

"No, Cercei Lannister, what you fail to grasp, is that _knowledge_ is power. Knowledge of self and of the enemy. _That_ will allow you to destroy any foe, _that_ will allow you turn every situation, no matter how disadvantageous, into a boon. So far, this seems to be a fact grasped amongst Lannisters only by your father and your youngest brother." Nik spat, before whirling away from the now cowering Queen.

He suddenly had no wish to remain in this courtyard any longer. It would seem his private time would be cut short today.

"Knowledge?"

Nik paused at the Queen's incredulous voice. And then she laughed. It was a cruel laugh, somehow filled with a derision for all those lower than her, which in her twisted mind was everything and everyone.

"You think that knowledge is power? How quaint." Cercei simpered, smiling at Nik, as if he were a child that thought he could converse with adults.

She waved a dismissive hand at the men surrounding them.

"Kill him."

After a second delay, which Nik doubted Cercei even noticed, the men all pulled their swords and advanced on him, forming a ring of steel around him. Nik's expression turned murderous, and the Lannister men halted their advance, shooting each other nervous glances.

Yet still the Queen did not notice, instead letting out a mocking laugh.

"Oh nevermind, I changed my mind! Let him live."

Gratefully and hastefully, the men in red armor quickly sheathed their swords and took a few steps backwards. Cercei however walked up to Nik with confident strides, an intolerable little smirk on her feline features.

"You see, spymaster. There's no such silly notion as 'knowledge is power'."

She leaned in close, her smirk widening into a grin.

" _Power_ is power."

There was silence, as the Master of Whispers and the Queen of Westeros stared each other down in the courtyard, until it was suddenly broken by laughter.

Nik couldn't help it. He tried to stop himself, but the gales of laughter pushed themselves past his throat despite his best efforts.

"Power is power?" he mused aloud, after the laughter had finally died down.

"Crude, but not entirely untrue. _However_ …" and at this his voice turned low and dangerous.

"… you are mistaken if you think that it is _you_ , who has power here."

And with that he lifted his hand to the sky. The Lannister men were now shifting nervously in their armor and even the Queen looked apprehensive at whatever Nik the Furious would do next.

 _Snap!_

 _Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud!_

At the snap of Nik's fingers, six black arrows flew out from the hidden shadows surrounding the blooming courtyard, each one finding their mark in the unprotected necks of the Lannister soldiers. As one they dropped dead, leaving only a horrified looking Queen and a furious looking spymaster.

"A good day to you, Cercei Lannister. Do not ever bother me again."

And with that, Nik walked away, disappearing into the shadows as if he had never been there in the first place, leaving only six bodies and one fearful woman behind.

* * *

 **AN:** As you can tell, Nick isn't as composed as his canon counterpart. His past is responsible for this, as well as the infuriating people that seem to be drawn to King's Landing. There'll probably be a chapter about Nick's earlier years, most likely when I introduce Varys, who, as you may have noticed, is not Master of Whispers in this story.


	5. The Warrior I

**AN:** Ooohh boy, do I have a lot of idea's for the lore of asoiaf! This is only the introductionary chapter, but rest assured, there will be alot more chapters exploring the vast history of the world of Westeros, hopefully a little longer than this one :)

* * *

 **The Warrior I**

A tall man, clad in great armor, with a blood-red cloak majestically flowing behind him, stormed through a great hall, blond hair whipping about his head at his great pace.

Though the hall was larger and more opulent than any mortal hall in any land on Midgard could ever hope to be, the irate man crossed its impressive length in a matter of moments, coming to a stop before a great throne, clad in such brilliantly shining gold it would've made any Lannister green with envy.

"Father!" the blond roared, a great hammer, with a noticeably short handle, clenched tightly in his fist.

The figure on the throne, larger still than the massive warrior in front of him, despite its apparent age, raised its head, snow-white hair parting to reveal a single eye, glaring out with such power and knowing, a mortal man would be unable to meet its gaze.

"Son." The figure acknowledged, the single word slamming throughout the vastness of the empty hall with an almost physical weight to it, even though the figure had not raised his voice.

"The situation on Midgard _needs_ our attention, father! If we do nothing, the lands of Westeros _will_ be swept away by _him_."

"It is not our way to interfere with the world of Man, son. Not anymore."

"So the mortals must pay for the crimes of my brother-!"

"HE'S NOT YOUR BROTHER!"

A silence fell in the empty hall, the impossibly loud voice shaking the great building to its very foundations. The figure, clad in fantastical armor as well, sat down from the standing position he had shot into, a weary look on his lined face.

"Look around you, my son."

The warrior bowed his head, eyes resting on the floor beneath his booted feet. A sigh could be heard from the aged figure, before it repeated itself more forcefully.

"Look."

Reluctantly, the warrior raised his head, brilliant blue eyes roaming around the empty hall, taking in the spotless floors, the unadorned walls, the empty platters at vacant tables. In a way, the cleanliness of the hall was even worse than the state the hall had originally been in.

But you can only stare at carnage for so long. After several millennia, it simply becomes unbearable. The voice of his Father shook him out of his dreary thoughts.

"When we led the Andals to the lands of the First Men, we thought we were doing something good. And then they waged war on their brethren, the First Men, and we were proven wrong. When the frost giants attacked, we came down to Midgard to save them from a foe they could not hope to match, because surely, _this_ time we were doing the right thing. And then they fell to the deceit of one we called our own, and once again we were proven wrong."

"They are not to blame for falling to _his_ deceit when we fell as well!" The warrior denied vehemently, though the Father only slowly nodded his head in agreement.

"Agreed, we are as much at fault as the mortals in that regard. The creation of the Children, by infusing mortals with the magic of the Old Gods, it sounded so much like a sound decision at the time. We never thought to think why we needed magically charged humans in the first place, if our host was sufficient to drive the Frost Giants back on its own."

"But some good came from them still!"

At this, the Father narrowed its single eye.

"Yes, they were forced to turn on us, their stolen magic proving to be deadly to our life-force, but once we freed them from _his_ control, they turned their gift on the Frost Giants instead! They are now vastly diminished in both power and size; a regular mortal may now be capable of slaying them! Surely you have not forgetting the strength of Man, Father, or do you not remember Commander Roggers?"

"'Vastly diminished in power'? Have _you_ forgotten those events of ages past, my son? Thanks to the Children's magic, combined with rites of _his_ own, they now not only control both the cold, but the dead as well! No, even if Man was capable of spawning another like Commander Roggers, it would not be enough. There is no strength left in them anymore."

The Warrior looked as if his Father had just struck him across the face, mouth open in shock, hammer falling from a loose grip, falling to the ground with the clap of thunder.

"So that's it then? We leave the mortals to their fate? To their doom?!"

The Father sagged further into his golden throne, grief clear in his remaining eye, even as he gave a small nod.

"The Eternal Night for Mankind has come. If not by _his_ hand, then Surtur will make Midgard his own. Already, he has disguised himself as a benevolent god, and has amassed a following amongst the mortals. It is over son."

A silence fell over the empty hall, as the Warrior bowed his head, eyes shut in pain. Turning on his heel, red cloak billowing out behind him, he stormed towards the exit of the hall, biting out his remark over his shoulder even as he walked away.

"Not on my watch, Father. You may judge Man beyond hope, but I will _never_ stop fighting for them. You say there's no strength left in them. If that's true, then I shall lend them my own instead."

"And if you come across your brother? If you come across your brother, and should you continue with this foolhardy venture of yours, you _will_ come meet him, then what shall you do? Try to _reason_ with him, as you have before?! Look around son, and see what that has brought us before! Naught but pain and death and misery!" the Father boomed as he jumped to his feet again, power roiling around him in tumultuous waves, his eyes blazing in anger and loss, his voice shaking the very earth itself.

The warrior paused, but did not look back.

"If Loki and I meet… than I shall slay him where he stands."

At those words, a look of pain flashed across the Father's aged face, before he slowly lowered himself onto his throne again, for the first time truly looking like an old man.

"I hope you do… for all our sakes, even his."

The warrior gave an unseen nod before continuing his walk, one hand stretched behind him, hand splayed open.

"Mjolnir, to me!"

The hammer flew from its place on the floor into the Warrior's hand, faster than any horse, bird or arrow could ever hope to be.

As the giant gilded doors fell shut behind the departing Warrior, the Father whispered into the emptiness of the vast hall, his voice laden with grief.

"Go then with my blessing… Thor Odinson. And please… return to me. Please."

And with those words, Odin All-father closed his eye, a single tear streaking across his wrinkled cheek.

* * *

 **AN:** Come on, be honest, who all knew the identities from the get-go? However, how many have a clue of how I plan to integrate the Asgardians with the world of Westeros? I think I've dropped some pretty big clues, but I'm curious how many of you guys picked up on it. Let me know! :)


End file.
